Henry Song ’21
A Hard Place The smell of sawdust and raw wood was overpowering. Soft light shone through the open window, giving a tawny glow to the hammers and chisels scattered over the sculptor’s tables. In the middle of the room sat a large block of stone, cold to the touch. A man walked around the block, occasionally prodding it here and there. Of short stature and with a scruffy beard speckled with bits of marble, he wore a hat to cover his bald head. The man grumbled to himself as his work sent dust flying into the air. After the air had settled, the stone’s maroon shine reflected the splendid sun’s rays. He paused for a moment before leaving the room. The workshop was deathly silent except for the occasional gust of wind. Soon, the flaxen shine of the room dimmed until a silver sheen replaced it. The stone sat still. The sculptor’s face was the first thing it saw when it woke up. It did not even realize it could experience being awake until a toothy grin had suddenly appeared on the face it was looking at. While the stone was still confused as to where it was or what was going on, there was a sense of comfort in staring at the face. Soon, it heard the soft breathing of the person in front of it, the chirping of the birds outside, and sounds of chipping as well. “Ah, so I am a statue,” it realized. “He has completed my ears.” He could not feel anything below his neck, so he imagined he must give the utmost trust to the man holding the chisel. And so, the statue was content watching his creator work. These idyllic days lasted for six months. When the sculptor put the final touches on the statue, his grin reappeared. The statue felt happy watching his creator be so carefree, but at the same time feelings of dread and trepidation came over him as he wondered what would now become of him. Over the time he had spent with the sculptor, the statue had come to learn that he was to commemorate the hundredth anniversary of a certain town ten miles from here. The statue had been fashioned in the image of the town’s founder, Gerald Fitzberg, a man of impeccable stature who exuded authority. The clicking of heels against stone was unbearable. The heat was unbearable. The worst of all, though, was the stench of the people surrounding him. The sights and sounds he thought he would enjoy were overwhelmingly tedious. In fact, it was only in the wee hours of the day 64
